


Ground Zero

by blackice



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Banter, F/M, Gen, Getting back in the game, Male-Female Friendship, Mass Effect 2: Lair of the Shadow Broker, Pre ME3, Pre-Relationship, hinted Shepard/Thane, minor profanity, personal headcanons, post ME2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4041418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackice/pseuds/blackice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Lair of the Shadow Broker.</p><p>And the Shadow Broker’s massive body is nowhere to be seen – despite that phenomena, it is not what Feron’s mind fixates on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ground Zero

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a three-story series for my little sister.

_In_.

 _Out_.

Feron counts the seconds and awaits the next scheduled shock with labored breath. He wonders, briefly, how Shepard and Liara and the distant-seeming drell are faring against the Shadow Broker. Far be it from him to so swiftly discard any hope in Shepard’s unusual luck in swinging a victory in the face of unimaginable odds, but then again, Feron knows Liara.

 _In_. _Wait_.

Too soft for information brokering, Feron had decided two years back. Too _soft_ to seem like one of the famous members of Shepard’s squad who defeated the ‘Reaper’ at the Citadel. Yet at the end of their brief partnership, Feron had seen the sliver of steel under the delicate asari’s skin, and the asari’s resolve had strengthened his decision to martyr himself for the impossible.

_Out –_

The power clicks off from a thrumming hum into abrupt silence, and the room blackens into shadows that Feron’s been raised to slip into since a young brat of seven. He’s out of the restraints in seconds, a sense of urgency pushing his shaky balance to its limits as he fumbles for a submachine gun from one of the fallen.  When he has the reassuring heft in his hands, Feron slides it into a holster and starts to dust off his coat.

Marks from the arcs of electricity are burned into the leather material – he tsks silently. What a hassle it will be, he laments, to resell this for a decent price.

“ _This is the Shadow Broker_. _The situation is under control_.”

Feron stills, head cocked.

 _No_.

There is a spasm in his left leg, a pain that could be classified as crippling to a lesser alien. The sensitive skin at his waist scrapes against the abrasive material of his coat, and when Feron had twisted for the holster at his thigh, he had wanted to curl up and die. The hardened skin at his wrists has been scraped raw by his constant struggles against his restraints.

“ _We experienced a power fluctuation while upgrading hardware_. _”_

The artificial distension of the voice echoes down the hallways of the ship, the tone as dry as he remembers. It almost sends him down a memory, but – he jogs at first, his first steps tentative with disbelief. Then he runs, disbelief and anger passing him strength.

 _He_ dares, thinks Feron. Sprinting down the remnants of carnage Shepard, Liara, and the drell have left behind in their mad bid to destroy the Shadow Broker, he finally reaches the office. A trembling fury tints his vision redder than it should be, and he pulls his gun out with a wordless snarl to the ( _slender?_ his mind points out, confused) figure at the holograms documenting the number of operations in the Terminus and Alliance Systems. His arm falters, a combination of two years of fatigue and shock.

The sight before him finally registers: there is Liara, her spine rigidly straight with a confidence that hadn’t been there the last time, and her hands folded behind the small of her back. Shepard is on the other side of the room, her spindly armored arms heaving a slab of rubble off the drell’s body.

And the Shadow Broker’s massive body is nowhere to be seen – despite that phenomena, it is not what Feron’s mind fixates on.

“Shadow Broker, out,” says Liara. The lilting command of her voice has never been more soothing to hear – metal tempered with silk.

“Goddess of the oceans,” Feron breathes involuntarily. He stumbles over his words, his surprise knocking him off-kilter both emotionally and physically. _Liara_ , Dr. I-have-two-doctorates-in-archaeology T’Soni, as the Shadow Broker?

(The hanar have a saying about potentials being secreted deep in a person’s soul, only cracking open when the right pressure is applied. Of course, that is a spiel given to young drell undergoing training, not at all intended to apply to an asari just barely over a hundred.)

Feron takes one step forward before reeling backwards, both at the resurging pain of his injuries and the way Liara holds herself edgily away from him. “I’m the new Shadow Broker,” she tells him needlessly. “There wasn’t – I couldn’t let it all slip away, could I?”

No protocol, hanar or otherwise, exists as a response to Liara’s helpless question.

At last, Shepard comes in to save the day, an arm supporting the drell’s weight. “It’s good to see you come into your own, Liara,” the commander says kindly. “You know what you’re doing?” As the commander and Liara discuss a future and events from a time before Feron – in blithe voices, none the less, gods, what _did_ Liara engage in prior to her commander’s death – he takes the time to box away any unnecessary feelings and start observing.

The unconscious drell, for example. Dressed in the universal leather coat, green-skinned, and in possession of two firearms: a sleek sniper rifle and a submachine gun kitted out with several damage amplifiers.

 _He’s hardly a wilting flower_ , Feron concludes. The unconscious are hardly interesting compared to those awake, but – respect and a healthy dose of fear keep him from worming information from Shepard. Plus. He sidles a glance to the heating debate ongoing between her and the Liara as he staggers for a chair.

Shepard is unrepentantly _terrifying_.

Her eyes spark a bright, glaring red before returning to their natural green. “Liara,” she insists. The drell then murmurs something too low, too rumbly to be parsed into words, but it sends Shepard into a worried fuss.

“Fine,” says Shepard. “I – Liara, anytime you want to _talk_ ,” she emphasizes the word with a stern glare, “just swing by my cabin. I have to get Thane back to the Normandy.”

“Of course, Shepard.” Wistful longing shines in asari-blue eyes. “I may be busy for a while yet, but you are welcome aboard the ship any time you wish.”

It’s only after Shepard and her drell depart from the ship that Feron finally gets up to limp over to Liara, half-wary and half-anticipatory. She’s turned back to her screens, one hand clutching the other one’s wrist in a vice-like grip. When Feron’s a foot or two away from her shoulder, Liara lets out a heavy sigh. “You should rest,” she chides.

Hypocrite. He says as much, injecting as much dry humor as he can in this state.

Gracefully, the asari sends him an expression of offense. “You’ve been – tortured for the better part of two years if not every single day. I have to oversee this.”

Feron rolls his shoulders – not a smart idea, his shoulders shout at him – and his neck – you’re the biggest fool in seven systems, his neck screeches – in mock-contemplation. “Well, how can I argue with the new Shadow Broker,” he says.

Past the winning smile Liara responds with, Feron can picture the tired lines aging her.

He stays by her side, amusing himself with the silent blurbs of the many operations’ communication lines. It takes Liara several minutes to realize he’s remained as she’s turned her back, but when she does, instead of talking him into acquiescence, she only lets her shoulders sag.

“I suppose I couldn’t make you rest,” she muses aloud. Her eyes flick to assess his wilting posture, her disapproval of his blithe regard of his health obvious. But then she politely reroutes her focus back to work. “It would seem almost hypocritical, wouldn’t it?”

With great reluctance, Feron stifles his chuckle to save his lungs from dying. Instead, he tries to clear his throat past the persistent rasp. “I really couldn’t say. I mean, offending the _great_ and _mighty_ Shadow Broker tends to have terrible consequences.”

It’s a little too soon for that joke, his conscious scolds him.

He’s terribly aware of how Liara’s posture has stiffened, so he winces theatrically. “Oops. Too soon?”

Her chin tilts downwards, and she stares at the charred floor – Shepard always leaves behind a calling card of scorch marks and debris. “Too soon,” she agrees, solemn.

“Plenty of time for other jokes, then, right?”

Eidetic memory serves Feron no purpose when he can hear Liara’s startled laugh in person. It’s rich, though soft – muted, maybe. Liara does not seem the type to guffaw or roar in happiness. But this is the first time in two years, the first time ever, really, that he’s heard a genuine sound of joy come from her.

“Spare me your humor,” she finally says, a wry twist to her lips. “It has ill timing.”

“Be kind; it has wonderful timing. Evidence stands before me.”

-

The dead Shadow Broker leaves behind at least twenty-five ongoing operation in the Terminus Systems, fifty in the Alliance Systems. It takes Liara a total of ten minutes of frantically swiping through the current page of ops to find the ones urgently flashing red for her notice.

Feron wakes to the frazzled sound of Liara chewing out what sounds like a salarian in the Krogan DMZ. He shrugs on his coat and staggers the short distance from his small quarters to the office; however, he is barefoot.

Ah, life.

“What,” Liara almost snaps, “possessed you to investigate further in the genophage than what I asked?”

Timidly, the salarian responds, “ _The situation presented an opportunity_ – “

Feron darts forward to tap Liara’s tensing shoulders. A warning not to overdo her act as the stern and commanding Shadow Broker. He pities the poor bastard for having to deal with a rapid change in his boss’s attitude. From what he recalls, the yahg always kept a veil of menace in his voice, no matter how soft it became.

Liara simply sounds irritated, like a child facing a difficult problem.

She blows out a breath and bows her head, raises it again. “Transmit whatever data you have gathered to my terminal. Another operation will be arranged to divert its course to yours and assimilate. Shadow Broker, out.”

“Nothing like a good lecture to begin a morning.” Feron almost bothers to keep his posture slipping from the cool lines of professionalism, but, well, Liara’s already gone ahead to drape herself on the seat and arms of the old Shadow Broker’s chair. “Was his the only team?”

“No.” The short answer is atypical, so he directs a blinking gaze at the asari. “Oh, bother. It’s like – like trying to herd a gaggle of children who all happen to be genii towards a single goal.  They cannot simply go from Point A to B. They have to hit Point C to Z before even considering touching B.”

He goes to sit on the desk, back hunched over, hands folded over his knees. “That’s not a disastrous strategy. You realize the Commander Shepard herself tends toward the same tactics?”

“Shepard generally has two things on her mind when she’s on a mission – completing the mission, and shooting. I was… passable in one field and barely adequate in the second.”

“And your biotics?”

In the span of a few seconds, Liara has her biotics activated to levitate two glasses of water over to the desk. It’s an impressive display of skill, other than that she is using it to perform mediocre tasks. “Have I ever said I am a master of my power?” He grabs one of the floating cups.

Feron deflects the question with a suave sip of water. The metallic taste causes him to visibly wince. “You may have to adjust the filtration systems unless you enjoy the taste of metal in your mouth,” he notes. Delicately, he snatches the other glass from the air as the asari sags in despair and drops her biotic field.

“I may have to give this entire ship a retrofit,” she returns. “The temporary repairs won’t hold forever.” Slowly, she reorients herself to a somewhat respectable sitting position, her legs raised and crisscrossed and arms folded.

“I’ve noticed the old Shadow Broker’s corpse is nowhere to be seen.”

“… It held no special information, and a decomposing body is hardly conducive for a productive working area,” sniffs Liara. “Biotics make lifting easy.” Unsaid is the reason behind why the emergency fields are on, holding back the gales of wind outside the skylight window.

He lifts his cup in acknowledgement. “Congratulations, Shadow Broker,” his voice dry, “you have revolutionized the usage of the greatest evolutionary perk nature has granted us.”

-

Two days have passed since Liara and Shepard’s joint rescue mission, and Feron is catching cabin fever.

He follows the operations in the Terminus Systems; Operation Starstreak, Kingsman, and Glass proceed smoothly on Ilium until they _don’t_. Their failure grates at Feron’s nerves – led by retired specialists and experienced handlers, how _could_ they fail?

Standing in front of Liara’s desk, now littered with datapads and a bastardized (and personalized) terminal fit for asari hands, Feron builds himself an argument.

“I’m healed, and I’m bored,” he tries.

“You still have a limp,” she counters.

“Irrelevant.” Through a tremendous amount of will, he balances his weight and steels his spine. “Something,” he argues, “is happening to those operations, and as a newly instated Shadow Broker, it is not as through you can afford to dedicate time to finding out why they’ve gone off the grid.” Feron spreads his arms wide, palms open. “I’m an information broker and spy who is currently neither brokering information nor spying. Trust me when I say I’m bored, Shadow Broker.”

Liara, seeing the pragmatism in sending out a loyal agent to investigate what could very well be a disloyal team, still purses her lips. “I don’t like it,” she murmurs, her blue eyes skating over his thin form. “You’re still injured, no matter how superficial, but I am close to drowning in datapads and statistics. Consider me jealous of your busywork, then, Feron.”

It’s as good as a ‘bless you’ as he’ll get.

He gives a succinct bow. “It’ll be a test run,” Feron suddenly offers, groping for some equal compensation – he owes a heavy debt either way. “To see if I’ve retained any of my notable repertoire. It’s a bad rep for a Shadow Broker agent when their prodigious wit cannot be equally backed up with skill.”

“Goddess forbid you lack in wit,” says Liara drolly. Without missing a beat, she reaches for another datapad to scan and readies her other hand to write notes.

Since he hadn’t anticipated an easy yield to his demands, Feron suddenly finds himself with nothing in his hands and nothing else to say. What _can_ he say? Their conversation seems to have reached a natural pause, except that Feron is still standing in front of the Shadow Broker’s desk, hands behind his back and his spine stiff as iron. Blankly, he stares at her.

The atmosphere is so awkward, Liara almost feels as if she’s returned to the university back at Thessia.  She clears her throat of the old obstructions of shyness, and she looks at Feron dubiously. “I can’t imagine how long you will be out there – you still have access to the Broker’s funds, you know that, right?”

Feron startles at the dismissal – too late, Liara realizes her unintentional meaning. “I’ll take my leave.”

“Oh! Sorry, wait, Feron – “

As he lopes out of the office, he sends a laugh her way. “I know what you meant, Liara, it’s just too good of an exit to leave!”

Impulsively, Liara throws a datapad at his head.

“You missed!”

-

Ilium is just as depraved and shiny as he left it – Nos Astra more so. Feron ghosts along the shadows, cocking his head every now and then to eavesdrop on conversations. The locations of the agents on Operation Starstreak have been promptly delivered to his omnitool from Liara, who’s managed to scrounge up several more trusty agents. He stops for a moment to continue texting Liara.

_operative yellow: Evidently, Shepard’s ‘good influence’ has done nothing to relieve Nos Astra of its corruption._

_overlord blue: Give her time. Are you aware of the saying, ‘Rome was not built in a day’?_

Hopefully, Liara will never discover the usernames he’s inputted in his omnitool. It would only lead to embarrassment, on both sides as well, considering the galaxy’s slang.

_operative yellow: Sounds human._

_overlord blue: It is. Either way, Shepard has her priorities, and Ilium is only just a planet in the long run._

_operative yellow: It is at that._

He trudges his way to the more twisty sections of Nos Astra. As graceful and elegant as asari architecture is, alleys and backstreets are a galactic disease in any city. When Feron reaches a door the garish color of copper, he promptly knocks twice. “So,” he says cheerfully, “management’s sent me.”

The pleasant thing about drell voices was that it was difficult to emulate – with simulators or with mimicry. Same thing with turians – the tonal hums underscoring their words made it difficult, or so Feron had heard. Besides, he _was_ a memorable operative.

The door swings open, and a salarian peers out from behind the door. “Were you not incarcerated by the Shadow Broker?” he asks.

Feron passes him a tight-lipped smile. “Shadow Broker’s feeling merciful, so long as I follow orders from now on.” A batarian in the back shouts a friendly, if drunken, greeting. “He’s new,” he observes clinically. The salarian flinches.

“We were just – waiting for – orders,” the reedy alien stammers.

He lets out a sigh, but, well, he’s been eager to get back in the information brokering business since a week ago. “Well, business I’ve come for, and business I’ll have.” To theatrics, Feron gleefully thinks, adding a regretful tone to his words. “Let’s speak of Operation Starstreak, salarian.”

-

[Shadow Broker’s Terminal]

 _Shadow Broker: Life gets dull __ [backspace]

 _Shadow Broker: It’s empty on this ship__ [backspace]

 _Shadow Broker: Storms get loud here._ [send]

_Desert: It’s only loud if the auditory emulators are on._

_Shadow Broker: Some ambient music would not be amiss. The silence is __ [backspace]

 _Shadow Broker: Some ambient music would not be amiss. The dampeners do their job quite well_. [send]

-

Feron is in a hideous mood, moreso than he would be at the usual incompetence of green recruits to the Shadow Broker’s organization. Maybe, he thinks blackly, the yahg _had been_ growing old. It certainly explains the harebrained scheme to sell Shepard’s corpse to the Collectors in return for immunity from the Reapers.

It is the only viable explanation for this greenhorn to be the de facto leader of Operation Starstreak after the retired STG leader Kalon had dropped from the grid.

“Do you – did you get all that?” asks the greenhorn salarian nervously.

The drell shoots him a dark look promising death. “What,” he says acerbically, “do you _think_.”

“Yes, yes you did, a- _ha_ , yes, I – um – see that you did get all I said.”

Under his breath, Feron breathes a long string of swears. “Where did he head last,” he growls.

“The, um – the Citadel,” the salarian squeaks.

Without Liara feeding him sincere words to say – Feron doesn’t _do_ sincere things for strangers or greenhorns like this one – he finds himself at a loss. Other than the spark of anger that the salarian let his superior officer slip by to the _Citadel_ , there’s also some anxiety curling in his chest. How to dismiss a band of Shadow Broker agents, and where to send them?

His omnitool warns him of a call.

Mechanically, he lifts his left arm, crooks his elbow, and lets the orange glow light into existence. “Shadow Broker, what excellent timing you have.” His voice slips into cool professionalism – hopefully Liara will know to play the game.

“ _Status on Operation Starstreak, agent.”_

It rings of authority, but also of an austerity that the old Shadow Broker did not have. Really, Liara’s a natural at this.

“New lead at Citadel, Shadow Broker. Operation Starstreak has… been delayed for the time being. Orders for them?”

“ _Continue with operations and keep low. Tell the batarian that dealing with any broken laws would be… troublesome_.”

Feron approves of the small batarian quip – it adds to the notoriety that the Shadow Broker knows all. Judging by the team’s stunned expressions, the Shadow Broker can still strike awe. Now for _fear_. That comes in time.

“ _Shadow Broker, out_.”

His omnitool blinks out, and Feron charmingly smiles at the salarian. “You heard her. Get to it, salarian.”

-

Naturally, he cannot just _stop_ at investigating Operation Starstreak. After all, Operation Glass has failed on Ilium too, just not at Nos Astra. He takes a private cab to another city – not the shiny capital, but a lesser, more artsy city. If Nos Astra is business and class and asari, then Nov Gaea is art and grunge and human.

With the lone outsider.

_agent yellow: Who sends a batarian to mingle with humans at Nov Gaea?_

_agent yellow: The Shadow Broker, that’s who._

_agent yellow: Send a member of a universally-hated, universally-acknowledged slaver race._

_agent yellow: To a human city._

_overlord blue: Discretion is not always the better choice._

-

Operation Glass, according to the files Liara has dragged from information hell, had the goal to establish a warehouse in the slums of Nov Gaea, close to the most popular nightclub – Terra. Its name is as unoriginal as the city’s name.

“So what happened here?” drawls Feron, leaning against the doorframe of the _wrong_ warehouse and arms crossed because he _is_ a total badass. “You, uh, missed your target by a few blocks.” He gestures carelessly with one hand and smirks.

The batarian slumped against a shattered shipping crate scoffs. He looks as though he’s had a rough couple of weeks, which – well, Feron can’t summon any kind of sympathy for the batarian when he himself had been trapped in a chair on and off for two years. “Thought you were in the chair, drell,” he croaks.

“I think I’m getting on the Shadow Broker’s good side.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

Feron sweeps into the room, clean lines and deadly grace against a backdrop of whitewashed walls and a floor dusted with heat sinks and shards of shipping crates. Cold air-conditioned breezes brush past his face and his coat, but it can’t erase the smell of dried sweat and the charred smell of heat sinks popped prematurely while still hot. He spreads his arms wide. “I’m an information broker in the need of information,” he corrects. “So.”

Squinting at him with beady black eyes, the batarian responds slowly, “So…?”

He claps his hands together. “I am in _need_ ,” he emphasizes, “of information.”

-

Feron calls Liara – this is an unfamiliar breach of protocol between agents and the Shadow Broker, but he figures he has some privileges.

“ _Feron_?” Liara’s startled voice rings clear in his ear, and it eases the worrying clog in his chest. “ _Is everything alright over there_?”

“Well, typical Ilium, of course,” he answers belatedly. “Everything’s – fine.”

“ _If you’re certain_.” The dubious tone would probably irritate others, but here it tends to warm him. Not many people tended to care for one young, cocky drell, especially after being outed as a triple-crosser.

“Quite.” Feron glances back at the dilapidated warehouse he’s departed from fondly. “You’d be amazed, Liara, at how quaint some customs are in batarian culture.”

Her wry smile could travel across galaxies, he swears. “ _I’m sure_ ,” she responds gently. “ _What was the cause of Operation Glass’s failure_?”

He hums. “Mmm, some upstart revolutionary information broker who couldn’t hack the lifestyle. Funny enough, he’s at the Citadel too. I’m coming back to the ship, mind you.”

“ _Not chasing after the rogues? How like you, Feron_.”

“You wound me. I’m simply gathering more information back at the base. It’s nice to, you know, just relax with a drink and some datapads and _read_. As a student, surely you remember reading things for fun.”

“ _I can’t recall reading anything for fun_ ,” she deadpans. “ _Unless you count thesis papers on Prothean cultures and their civilization_ fun.”

Feron tries, he really does, to stifle the horrified and stilted sound. “Um.”

Liara laughs. “ _Ah, academia._ ” Her tone goes all the wrong ways down nostalgia.

-

He ducks into the innards of the Shadow Broker’s ship, making a face at the blast of cool air. Stalking down past hallways – now free of scorch marks, except for one stubborn blood stain Feron assumes was a resulting headshot from a sniper named Shepard – he forgets that the next door past leads to –

Electricity. Live and buzzing and all too powerfully white-blue. Streaks past his vision, down his throat, across his chest, over his legs. He tries pulling back. Restraints tie him to the chair. Beeping. Machine wired to his heartbeat going faster with each consecutive shock.

A hand, large, impossibly so – _what is he_? Clawed. Presses down hard on his shoulder, hurts, impossibly so. Something pops. The machine screeches, louder, faster, a staccato of a too fast symphony marching ahead of the conductor’s beat.

A rasping voice: “This is what happens to those who defy me.”

Someone’s screaming. It’s him –

“Feron?” Two small hands, soft and warm, cradle the hard lines of his jaw. The touch snaps him out of the memory’s grabby clutches – he shudders his way out, eyes blinking too fast, it’s too _cold_ in here.

Feron’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, arms hugging them tight. He’s not even two feet from the doorway – he tries to piece together the circumstances. So he walked in, took the cursory glance every Shadow Broker agent made to ensure the safety of their surroundings, and the sight of the chair must have sent him whirling down his memories.

“I hate that chair,” he finally says. “We should burn it.” He tries clearing his throat. “Or throw it out. Can we just – throw it out? Big world out there, plenty of garbage space.”

So he’s having trouble meeting her stare – her face is right up against his, by the way, how has he missed that _and_ the fact that she is crouched on the floor before him. While Feron scolds his attention span, Liara’s tugging at his face to inspect him for further trauma. There’s not pity in her eyes.

“Think of the possible lifeforms that could exist down there, Feron,” she sighs. “Gaseous lifeforms, can you imagine such a thing?”

Well, now he’s just confused.

That’s probably her goal.

“What?”

“Gaseous lifeforms. Think of it, a sentient gas… “

Feron sits there, bemused but distracted by the soothing tones of Liara’s voice, pulling him from solipsism to reality. Her abstract rant about the Gaseous Lifeforms takes his thoughts off about _it_ and all that _it_ entails. And. It’s pleasant; having a friend is something Feron’s never had the luxury to indulge in, even while spending his childhood at Kahje.

At the end of it all, Feron’s lulled into a sleepy state.

“You should – should be a _nurse_ ,” he says, grinning at the pleased expression in her face.

“I should say not,” Liara replies. She’s staying in place, her hands still holding his face. “Think of it, me, a nurse. I’d go mad within a day.” Her head tilts to the side – she doesn’t want to break this moment either, he realizes.

“Doctor?” Feron tries the name out on his tongue: “Doctor Liara T’soni, saving those who get in over their heads every day.” It tastes wrong, all harsh syllables and the wrong designations.

She corrects him. “ _Shadow Broker_ Liara T’soni.”

“Mmm. Much better, I suppose.”

Finally, she gets to her feet. “Can you stand?” Liara offers her arm, however slight it may be.

He waves it aside. “Well, I’m no longer limping,” he answers, testing his balance cautiously. There’s a crick in his neck, but Feron doesn’t try to crack it as that would require turning his head and facing _it_.

Speaking of it – he never used to be afraid of something so inconsequential. It’s over, he’s saved, and he’s learned from the past. This fear, though, applies only to this particular chair, this particular hallway, this particular control console.

Feron used to be able to endure nightmares.

“Have you tried redecorating on your own yet?” he asks lightly, dusting off his coat.

Somehow, she can hear the unease in his voice at the prospect of staying in this room, so she wordlessly starts gliding back to the office. “I’ve asked Shepard on buying miscellaneous items.”

Miscellaneous items? “Such as?”

Liara glances back at him, some bemusement twisting the sullen glower. “She recommended me to some – artists and several subscriptions to magazines. To fill up shelves.” Her tone warns him not to explore the subject, but she should know better. That’s just an invitation.

“Magazines,” he drags out. “Are we talking _Galactic Science_ magazines, _Alliance Secrets_ , or dare I say – “

“She made a _joke_ , Feron.” Aw, she’s embarrassed. “At least, I think it was a joke.”

“You know, Fornax actually publishes some good authors looking to make their stake in the market – “

“I don’t want to hear it!”

Left behind in the midst of their banter, the ugly memories fester, forgotten.

-

Feron wakes up to Liara handing him a datapad, her face tight with anxiety. Blinking away the last dregs of sleep, he takes it – another mission? Maybe another alarming report on an Operation having gone dark? He skims through the text. It’s not an especially long paragraph, just directions –

“You moved the docking port?” The words slip out of his mouth, unbidden.

“The new one’s actually an unused port that used to be the old dock,” Liara hedges. “And, well, it branches into the office from connecting one of the latter hallways past the cell. It’s a bit of a longer walk, but there’s some empty shelves that I was going to fill with the. Um. Miscellaneous items.”

He sits upright on the small cot, still clinging to the datapad; his face must be a sight, because Liara’s eyes drop to the floor and she starts to back away.

Instinctively, Feron’s hand goes to snag her wrist. “Liara.” Has he always sounded this tired? No wonder Liara is always impressing on him to rest. “Thank you.”

She gives him one of her smiles and gently pats his hand. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> (god help me I am such trash for minor pairings, why am I in love with so many behind the scenes pairings aughhh)
> 
> More coming soon. Criticism welcome.


End file.
